


to warm the fleeting living

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Dark Magic, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Multi, Post-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M, more break it to fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 15:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: The spell Harold used to bring John back from the dead was modified from a spell for enslaving a spirit for prurient uses. The first time Harold read it, it turned his stomach; the second time, he was too sick with grief to feel anything but burning determination.





	to warm the fleeting living

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Code16 and Toft for handholding and beta! All remaining issues are my fault.

It's late. The room is silent but for the tick of the clock, the creak of Harold's armchair, and the rustle of paper as Harold turns the pages.

Grace is asleep. So would Harold be, on most nights.

The electric lights dim. The room grows cold enough that Harold can see his breath steaming.

There's no sound behind him, but Harold knows what he'll see if he turns around. "You stayed away for too long," he says, and closes his book.

The shape that appears in the corner of his eye is almost human. The voice saying, "I was busy," is not human at all.

Harold closes his eyes and emits a small sigh. "Just as well." He starts unbuttoning his waistcoat.

"No," John says, and he's in front of Harold now. He looks almost like he did when he was alive, except his skin has taken on an ashen cast and his hands are only a suggestion sketched in fog. They take shape as Harold watches, long familiar fingers reaching to catch Harold's wrist.

Harold doesn't resist. A physical fight takes a lot out of John, and John is already in desperate straits. "Do you have a potential for me, then?"

They agreed to this system when it became clear that John could not survive feeding on Harold alone. It still wracks Harold every time he agrees to let John feed on an unwilling person, no matter how awful their crimes, no matter how unstoppable they are otherwise. Not all potentials die in the process, but most don't survive.

In the past, Harold had very little appreciation for ethical dilemmas. He likes them less still now that they ceased to be a mental exercise and became his solid reality: how many lives will he give to preserve their fragile status quo?

"No," John says, and Harold can't help a little relieved sigh. "But it's too much. I can't take it from you."

Oh, not this again. "Shall we go over our available options?" Harold says, tiredly. "One: you feed on an innocent, and we both agreed that's not acceptable."

A part of Harold wonders, sometimes, if someday they might decide this is not so unacceptable. If John can feed on an unrepentant murderer, why not a rapist? Why not a serial abuser, or a stalker, or a white collar offender who lived off the sweat and blood of thousands of others?

In daylight, Harold has careful arguments to counter this. Now, in the dark, all he can do is to cling to the memory that he had decided while using his best judgement, and now he must stick to his decision.

"I could just... not do it. Not feed," John says. Desperation comes across clearly in his voice. "I'll try harder this time."

They've tried that before. John can't die until Harold does. When he doesn't feed, John gets hungrier and hungrier, until he snaps and feeds on whoever is nearby. "I can't restrain you," Harold says. "Either it wraps around to feeding on innocents, or you'll feed on me anyway, when your judgement is impaired."

For a moment, John is quiet. "We might have to take that risk some day."

"Not today." Harold's voice is firmer than he feels. He resumes unbuttoning his shirt. "Hurry. We'd best finish before--"

"Before you wake me up?" Grace asks from the doorway.

John and Harold both freeze. Fitting, given the room's temperature. Grace walks in, huddling in her terry cloth robe, and she stares at John. When she speaks, however, she says, "Harold, what's going on?"

"I'll go," John says, harshly.

"Stay." To Harold's surprise, Grace speaks with him in unison. It makes him ache.

Then Grace turns to him and says, "You promised. No more secrets." She glances back and adds, "I'm guessing this is John?"

If she's surprised by the presence of a semi-corporeal man in their den, she doesn't show it. Harold told her as much as he could bear; to his gratitude, she was willing to accept that Harold had a painfully tangled partnership with a man he could still not part with - a man who could not meet Grace without undue danger - without pressing for more.

Harold closes his eyes. A part of him wishes he could feed John and go back to sleep; that would be merely excruciating. "Yes," he says. He licks his lips. "I told you about the Machine. Have you wondered how I created an artificial intelligence, when all other attempts have failed?"

Despite not seeing Grace's expression, Harold can imagine it, the quick understanding that must dawn in her eyes when she says, "It wasn't just code, wasn't it."

"No," Harold admits. "Though I didn't know this at the time. By the time I understood..." that the Machine was alive. That magic was real and that Harold had used it to summon a being into the world with a mind of its own. That his actions resulted in that being's death every midnight only to be resurrected the next minute. "It was too late to undo."

He'd set the Machine free, of course, although he might not even have done that if it weren't for Root's interference. Too little, too late, but he'd been terrified by the knowledge of his actions.

And then, of course, he'd done worse to a man who loved him. The irony would be hilarious if it weren't so awful.

A warm hand settles over his. Harold opens his eyes to see Grace's wide eyes. "But that's amazing," she says. "There's _magic_ in the world. Just to know that... that's incredible."

_Incredible_ is not the word Harold would use.

John coughs. It's a disconcerting sound, and Grace jumps. Her expression shifts from wonder to sympathy. "Of course," she says, "I suppose it's not so nice from where you're standing. You don't seem very happy, John, if you don't mind me saying." She turns back to Harold and asks, "How do you feed him?" in the same tone she might have used to inquire what Harold meant to make for dinner.

"Life force," Harold says.

"It's not a pretty picture," John adds. "You might want to go back in the other room."

Grace ignores that and tilts her head. "Was that what you were fighting about? Well, I suppose he can feed off me, if that'll help."

Harold opens his mouth, but John beats him to it. "No," John says, low and harsh.

"Why not?"

Harold and John exchange glances. Again, it's John who speaks. "I told you. It isn't pretty."

Grace lifts her chin. "If Harold can take it, I don't see why I can't."

While Harold is spluttering, John says, "Because _that_ , Harold couldn't take. And neither can I."

It's true. Grace blinks. Harold can tell she's mustering her arguments, but before she can make them known, an idea pops into Harold's mind. "There's another way," he blurts.

They both turn to him. Grace seems curious. He can't read John's expression at all.

"If you and John, ah," damn it, there's no way to make it sound less than tawdry, "had sex. This should do the trick without causing either of you harm." Harold swallows. "He's very handsome when he takes care to seem human, although he can't help being chilly currently; I believe you'll enjoy him, if he's willing." He looks down, too much of a coward to look either of them in the eye.

There's a short silence. Then John says, in a voice like murder, "You never brought that up before."

Harold swallows. "I didn't believe there was a way to invoke this clause without causing worse harm than we were doing."

The spell he used to bring John back from the dead was modified from a spell for enslaving a spirit for prurient uses. The first time Harold read it, it turned his stomach; the second time, he was too sick with grief to feel anything but burning determination.

"And now there is?" Grace asks, skeptic. "Harold, are you telling me you chose to be tortured rather than have sex?"

"I'd say, rather than commit rape." Harold raises his hand, forestalling John's vocal objections. "I will still feed you if you ask, John, and," he swallows, "if Grace consents, I will not object to you feeding additionally off her. In whatever way you both choose."

John treats him to a murderous glare. Harold meets his eyes, resolute.

Grace gives him a dubious look. "This is not my idea of a sexy atmosphere," she says, "but I suppose there's little enough harm in trying." She unties her robe, shivering at the cold, and opens her arms to John.

John turns solid all over, so quickly that Harold winces at the energy use. But of course John wouldn't want Grace to find this unpleasant in any way. He steps into Grace's arms, and his hands settle on the small of her back, briefly flickering out of their solid form. If Grace notices, she shows no sign.

Outside of context, Harold supposes he'd have found John and her very beautiful together. As it is, he can't stop thinking about consequences, and choices, and the lack thereof. John makes Grace gasp and close her eyes in startled pleasure; the way this same pleasure turns to energy that John can feed on is almost palpable, like static electricity in the room.

And yet, a part of Harold remains curious and detached, noting that climax isn't required for feeding to work. He has wondered about that, he realizes; he abruptly shuts down that train of thought, ashamed. 

Slowly, John's skin regains color. The room grows warmer. John makes Grace moan with his clever, capable hands. Harold watches, feeling inconsequential and worse than useless.

At last, Grace shudders and relaxes. John gently helps her to the couch, then rises to his feet. The sight of him causes an unexpected pang in Harold's chest: John looks so much like he did when he was alive, thrumming with quiet strength.

"I'm still hungry," John whispers, and either he's lying or he has been starving ever since Harold called him back from the dead.

Either way, Harold can't refuse him. He unbuttons his pants with trembling fingers, flushing as he reveals his soft cock. It's not just inner anguish at work, just as his causes for never revealing this way of feeding to John were not only about John's consent; it seems unbearably cruel, to dangle before John the possibility of satiation if only he could make an old, injured man's equipment cooperate.

John goes to his knees and takes the entirety of Harold's cock in his mouth. John's mouth is hot now, enough to startle Harold into making a sound; and he keeps making sounds, because it feels good, as though John's hunger is a physical emptiness sucking at him.

The thought, and the resulting guilt, ought to have put paid to any chance of Harold growing hard. Despite this, he responds: slowly, not fully, but he's becoming erect nonetheless.

Harold swallows, wondering how to explain to John. Before he can speak, Grace says, "Harold might not be able to come. Don't worry about it, just stop when you get tired."

Sometimes it occurs to Harold that Grace is very aptly named.

John pulls off then. "Feels good?" he asks. Harold nods, dazed, and John returns to his task.

At this point, it seems churlish to do anything but enjoy this to the best of his ability: his arousal will feed John, and to refuse the pleasure this brings him would be counterproductive at best. Harold allows himself to look, to see John's lips tight around his member.

He's somewhat surprised to realize that John doesn't look like he's carrying on a chore. He looks serene, almost; Harold tentatively lays a hand on John's head, rubbing his fingers through John's hair.

John moans at the touch, and Harold jerks, aroused further by the sound and the vibrations on his cock. This gets John to suck him harder. Harold groans and gives in, grasping John's hair and pulling.

Every time he tugs, John moans, the sound rising high and desperate. Every time John moans, Harold grows that much harder, as maddeningly close to climax as he's come in months.

Finally John leans away and wipes his mouth. Harold pants, staring at him. His cock feels tender, hard and exposed as it is.

"Oh, hey," Grace says, "mind if I--?" She makes a gesture, and Harold blinks and says, "Of course, by all means." Grace grins and makes her way over to sit in Harold's lap. She's wet from her earlier session with John, and sliding inside her is the easiest thing.

John looks at them like a starving man at a feast. In a way, of course, he is. "You're welcome to whatever you'd like from me," Harold says, softly, and Grace says, "Me too."

With Grace's body in the way, it's hard to see exactly what John is doing. One moment, Harold feels John's mouth hot on the base of his cock, licking down to his balls; the next, Grace moans, and Harold reaches to rub her clitoris only to find John's mouth already there, sucking urgently at her.

Harold's hand retreats to perch on Grace's hip, the other tangling in John's hair. The room seems to grow hotter by the second, the air thinner until Harold feels he can hardly breathe.

A moment later, the last of the air in his lungs escapes in an "Oh." Harold had forgotten what it was like, to experience a climax that intense. It brings tears to his eyes, which squeeze shut without his volition. It keeps going for a very long time.

When it's done, Harold notices that Grace is still shuddering in her own aftermath. Of course John brought her there: clever, capable John. Harold struggles for sufficient control of language to ask him, "Do you, can I?"

It's the best he can do under the circumstances.

John smiles, looking so much like he did when he was alive that Harold aches. "I'm good," he says, voice hoarse. It makes Harold shiver.

Then shiver again, in a decidedly less pleasant way, considering the potential outcomes of what they just did.

Grace wriggles off Harold. "Can you stay?" she asks John. "Or are you going to disappear by morning?"

"It's dangerous for me to stay," John says.

That's about as much as Harold can take. "Stay," he tells John. The word can't compel John - Harold did manage to alter the spell that much - but John follows them to the bedroom nonetheless, as Harold knew he would.

Lying in bed between his wife and the ghost of the man he loves is somewhat surreal. Harold isn't used to the metaphors in his life being so unsubtle. 

~~

A cold draft wakes Harold up. His first thought is distraught: can John be so hungry again, so soon?

He blinks and sits up to notice the open window, John's blurry silhouette leaning towards it.

It shouldn't hurt so much to see John trying to leave. Of course, Harold is frequently surprised by how much things can still hurt, and subsequently is annoyed at himself: you'd think at least he would see the pain coming. "Must you?" he asks John, plaintively.

John turns around slowly, the edges of him wafting like smoke. "I shouldn't stay."

The previous pang returns, stronger and more vicious, like a bullet through Harold's side. Once upon a time, Harold didn't know a broken heart could be such a literal feeling. "I suppose I have no right to keep you," he mutters. In a fit of pettiness he knows he'll regret, he adds, "Of course, I haven't let that stop me before."

It's hard to read the expression on John's face, which is semi-transparent and mostly hidden by shadows anyway. "I would have thought you'd have learned your lesson from that, Harold."

"So would I," Harold says. His hands open and close in his lap, helplessly. "And yet, here we are."

"Here we are," John echos. He turns to the window again.

Harold blurts, "Wait!"

John doesn't turn back around, but he doesn't move forward, either.

Harold inhales, the frozen air painful in his lungs. "Come back. Stay until morning." He swallows. "Grace did ask." It's beyond cowardly, and a low blow besides.

The flow of John's form stills. "You don't have to tolerate me around for her sake," he bites out.

Harold blinks at him, stunned speechless.

"Anyway, she's wrong," John says. "She thinks I'm some stray she needs to take care of, and she thinks keeping me around will make you happy, and she's wrong."

Harold manages to choke out, "Why would you say that?"

John flows to the bed. He's cold on purpose, now, a vague impression of a man in the middle of an icy cloud surrounding Harold. "The second chance wasn't enough," John says softly. "Neither is the third. I'm still a killer, Harold. Do you really need me to stick around until Grace figures that out?"

Grace mumbles and shifts in her sleep. John's cold edges are carefully tucked away, not touching her.

Harold closes his eyes and carefully breathes: in through the nose, out through the mouth. "If you're a killer, it's because I gave you no other choice."

John's eyes glitter in the dark. "Yeah, Harold. Why is that?" A trail of solid chill caresses Harold's throat like a knife blade. "You can say it." His voice is coaxing, the voice he uses to get murderers to confess. "You can bring a killer back to life, but not to your bed. That's very sensible of you."

The delicate house of cards that is Harold's moral reasoning collapses under that ruthless draught. "I couldn't bear for you to stay dead, so I forced you back to life," he says, raw and guttural. "I won't force you into my bed as well."

For a moment, the room is silent but for the whistle of the wind outside.

Finally, John says, "You never asked."

Harold scrubs at his face. It's wet. "I know. I--"

"You never _asked_ ," John snarls, which is no less than Harold deserves. He's expecting the weightless pressure of John's form against him, waits again for that edged frost to stab into every vulnerable part.

Instead, John is warm.

It isn't just the recent feeding. John is shapeless warmth enveloping Harold, clinging to him everywhere. It has to be on purpose. 

John says, "You never even gave me the chance to say yes."

Grace lobs a pillow at them. "Sleep," she mutters.

"All right," Harold says, dazed.

He could make pancakes for breakfast, to make it up to Grace. Perhaps John will still be here by daylight, and perhaps they could have a conversation that isn't choked with unspoken pain. 

"Sleep," John echos, wrapped around Harold like a comforter. Thus Harold is outnumbered, and he yields to the common sense of those he loves.


End file.
